She swore she’d never fall for a man who doesn’t read. So he did. (And now he’s got notes.)
Tabby Wilson has her life in order. She runs a bookstore that smells like paper and good coffee, avoids messy men, and sticks to happy endings that only exist in fiction.
Then Nico Ramirez walks in with sawdust on his shoulders and hands built for undoing things—buttons, boundaries, her focus.
He’s there to build shelves, not flirt, and claims he doesn’t read. Tabby takes that personally. So she lends him a book.
He gives it back covered in blue Post-its critiquing everything from plot holes to the hero’s laughable performance in bed. She should be offended. Instead, she’s turned on… and maybe a little obsessed.
What starts as banter turns into a deal: sex, no strings attached. But between the heat, the teasing, and the kind of chemistry that leaves her forgetting her own rules, Tabby starts to wonder if the man who doesn’t read might be the one who finally understands her story.
